


Longtemps

by SurelyMeretricious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Changing Tenses, Family, Gen, Headcanon, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Memories, Sherlock Cares, Sherlock's Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurelyMeretricious/pseuds/SurelyMeretricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock reflects on his childhood and his life with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Longtemps

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fluffy idea that blossomed. I wanted to present a part of Sherlock's life that I would like to believe happened. Because reasons.  
> I would suggest listening to "À la Claire Fontaine" if you have never heard it.  
> It's beautiful.
> 
> For those needing a translation, the chorus is:  
> Il y a longtemps que je t'aime  
> Jamais je ne t'oublier
> 
> Which roughly translates to:  
> It's a long time that I have loved you  
> Never will I forget you

   Looking back on his long life, Sherlock Holmes can pinpoint, with alarmingly precise clarity- foreign to all save himself, the exact moment he realised that he had metaphorically plummeted in amour with John H. Watson.

   Smiling to himself, his eyes surrounded by creases, he walks down the windy hill as he says aloud, “Do you remember, John?  I sometimes feel like it was only yesterday…”

 

   They had been in the sitting room of 221B, which was a common enough occurrence.  However, the seemingly small turn of events on that particular day caused a ripple effect, which was earth-shaking, altering both of their lives irrevocably.  John had lit the fireplace full-blast as the sun set, though it had been only mildly damp and chilly.  Then John had settled himself into his armchair with a fresh, steaming cup of tea and the daily newspaper.  Sherlock had known that John would peruse the crime section only after immediately searching for any and all articles concerning the two of them and their exploits.  

   Sherlock had quietly rubbed rosin on his violin bow string while he waited.  Surely enough, John had clucked loudly with disappointment at the paper and ink in his hands.

   Sherlock remembered smiling to himself as he picked up his Stradivarius and tuned his much-favoured instrument, losing himself in the routine of the motions.

   John always liked to hear Sherlock play, so Sherlock always liked to play for John.  Sherlock had given John his usual glance-over when his flatmate had returned from the dull and tedious job that somehow managed to occupy John’s time between cases and had noticed that John was under a great deal of stress.  Sherlock had wished yet again that John would just give up the side work and spend all of his time with Sherlock, solving crimes and laughing.  Sherlock had seen the stress in John’s ragged right thumbnail, where he had chewed on it at an angle that suggested he had done it whilst writing.  John’s mouth had been turned slightly downwards at the corners, set into a mild frown, and his hair was minutely disheveled from where he had tugged on it repeatedly.

   If that hadn’t been enough to go on, John’s distress over the newspaper certainly sufficed.  

   Sherlock had, after assessing that the weather was nowhere near dry enough to need the violin humidifier, attached the shoulder rest to his instrument and got into position.  

   “I can’t believe this,” John had mumbled to himself.

   Sherlock had given the socially satisfactory hum to alert John that he was, in fact, listening.  

   John, without bothering to acknowledge the gesture, had continued mumbling.  Sherlock had allowed the little discourtesy from John, as John usually had allowed his.

   John had clucked louder before saying gruffly to the room at large, “These reporters can be so bloody rude.  The things they say about you--after all you’ve done--are downright ridiculous.  I won’t stand for it.  True, you aren’t the most tactful person, but even you aren’t deliberately mean.  Not like this.”

   Sherlock had been set to play John’s favourite song, but at the last second his mind slipped.  Rather than what he had meant to play, his fingers pulled out a simple melody he thought he had deleted.  Instead, it had been lying dormant in the recycle bin of his mind palace.

   As Sherlock had played the short chorus the pieces fell neatly into place, allowing him to understand why that particular song had sprung to the forefront of his thoughts.

   It had been as simple as breathing.  Without missing a beat, Sherlock had looked at John and simply stated, “You remind me of my grand-mére.”

   John had folded the newspaper crisply with a bend of his thumbs as he sputtered, “What have I done now?  Are you trying to say I’m getting old?”

   Sherlock had rolled his eyes, desperately wishing for the millionth time that people would think now and then.

   “Not in the least.  And it’s not that you’ve done anything in particular, you are just similar to her in certain aspects.”

 

   Just as he had on that day, Sherlock thinks about his grand-mére.  He sits carefully on the neatly kept piece of field, glancing in John’s direction.  Picking up a blade of dewy grass, he rolls it between his fingers absentmindedly while he remembers.

 

   When he was just seven, Sherlock had easily deduced that his father thought that his nanny was a “special friend”.  Sherlock had hated her.  She was always trying to make him do something tedious.  One night at dinner, Sherlock had proudly shared his acquired knowledge with the entire family.  

   Instead of receiving the praise he had expected, his father had shouted, his mother had screeched, and Mycroft had gone knowingly pale.  Frightened by all the distressing din, Sherlock had retreated to his room to cry alone.  He remained there for three whole days before his father kicked the door in and informed him (quite rudely) that he was going to stay with his grand-mére in the French countryside for the duration of the summer.

   Sherlock had shouted and protested, to no avail.  He had even stooped so low as to beg and plead Mycroft to save him, but in the end, he went.  He made a point to complain loudly to his temporary nanny for the entire journey, his family having said their stiff words of parting as Sherlock's luggage was placed in the car boot.

   Sherlock had been worried, though he made sure not to show this to anyone.  Before that summer, he had never actually met his grand-mère.  Mycroft had met her once, but had declined to share any of his knowledge about her.

 

   Breathing in the clean country air that he used to despise, Sherlock closes his eyes and focuses on the wind in his hair.  The greenery always reminds him of his first day in France.  Now, the scenery is home, but then, it had made him feel displaced.  With a sigh that ended on a pained laugh, he says, “John, I wish I had had your company then.  You would have found a way to cheer me somehow.  You would have liked my grand-mère.  But oh, it was terrible on that first day…”

 

   Upon his arrival, Sherlock had been told that his grand-mère would not be meeting him until the following morning.  Sherlock had spent the rest of the evening and the entirety of the night pacing, sick with anxiety.  He had refused any and all food and had insisted his things remain untouched in his luggage.

   When the morning had come, a butler appeared to retrieve Sherlock for his grand-mère.  He remembers very clearly having hissed something quite rude before plopping himself squarely down on the floor with his arms crossed.

   After several minutes of silence, there had been a gentle knock on the door, then a greying auburn head had popped into the room, followed by an old, though in no way elderly, woman.

   With sharp eyes, Sherlock had catalogued her almond eyes and high cheekbones and found them startlingly similar to those of his mother and himself (Mycroft took more after their father).  Easily, Sherlock drew the conclusion that the intruder was his grand-mère, in the flesh.

   Sherlock had screwed up his face whilst trying to think of something so terribly nasty that she would be forced into sending him home, when she spoke, her voice a heavily-accented soft twinkle.

   In lieu of a greeting, she said, "Would you like to see something interesting?"

   Sherlock had paused, dumbstruck, before warily asking her to be more specific.

   She had smiled like she was letting him in on a special secret and said, "It's my beehive."

 

   Sherlock chuckles a little with embarrassment as he thinks back on how, as an endlessly energetic youth, he had shamefully jumped to his feet instantaneously.  His grand-mère had grinned knowingly at his enthusiasm, relying on the fact that the best way to engage him was through his insatiable curiosity.

    

   “I’m writing a thesis on the habits of bees and their impact on the environment,” the small Sherlock had said earnestly.  “Mycroft thinks I’m spending my time uselessly but that’s because I don’t want to be a politician like him.  Far from it.  I want to have adventures.”  Then, Sherlock had waited for the inevitable lecture that adults always gave him about “the real world” and “responsibility” and “expectations”.

    Instead, his grand-mère had boldly laughed.  Sherlock had stopped, tears of hurt welling in his eyes.  His grand-mère, without stopping said, “I admire your zealous spirit.  I think it’s a brilliant idea.”  Smiling broadly, though still a little baffled, he had followed her eagerly, soaking in every lilting word, everywhere she led.  She was utterly fascinating to him, and fascinated by him.

   Sherlock had spent the rest of the summer on her heels, imbibing every snippet of information that she was able to share with him.  He had learned French at the intermediate level within a month with her tutoring, so when the summer ended, she had asked him if he wanted to stay with her for the school year, a proposition he accepted without hesitation.  She enrolled him in the local, but prestigious, school, and their adventures were allowed to span the seasons.  

   Though he was loathe to admit it, Sherlock had loved her fiercely.  When one of the other boys at school had said that she was strange, he had taken personal offense, beating the boy bloody.  This had earned him a break from classes (which had appeased him) but also a stern scolding from his very disappointed grand-mère, which he had not enjoyed in the least.  Sherlock had accepted her reprimands as he never accepted anyone else’s.  She was the only exception, in all things.  He had even allowed her to sing him a lullaby every night (secretly, of course).  The song he had all but forgotten.

   “Sherlock, mon cher,” she had said, as they parted in the summer of 1989, wiping away tears Sherlock had thought were hidden deep within him and kissing his cheek while he hiccuped.  “When you arrived, you were a rude little boy,” she had said without qualm.  Sherlock hadn’t been able to stop himself from smiling weakly at her well-meant honesty.  She had smiled back and continued, “But I knew that you were not really trying to be mean.  You just wanted someone to love you, but you didn’t know how to ask.”  She had grasped him firmly by the shoulders and waited for his eyes to meet hers.  “Well, you never have to ask again.  I love you, mon petit cher.  Now, do good things with all the knowledge you have and will learn.  You are far too bright to let your talents go to waste.  Find a proper conduit.  Help people who need you.  Make your grand-mère proud.”

   Sherlock had nodded dumbly, unable to open his mouth as that would release the building sobs he had dammed with all of his ability.  How could he have known that the sadness he felt at being parted from her was only the beginning?

   Years later, when she died while he was in Uni, he had been completely devastated, turning to anything that could help drown the emptiness and calm his mind.

   His grand-mère’s eyes had twinkled with tears as she roughly tousled his dark curls affectionately--Only because Sherlock allowed it.  After he had climbed into the car that would begin his journey back to England, she had blown him a kiss.  Though it had been faint, he swore he could hear her humming his lullaby, the sound carried by the gentle breeze.  

   When Sherlock had arrived at home, he had been greeted by no one.  The breakfast following his return, he had waved shyly as he glared curiously at a corpulent Mycroft, who had seemed genuinely shocked at his appearance.  Sherlock had stayed in his room reading article after article and journal after journal in the weeks that proceeded.

   Then had come Carl Powers.

 

   Sherlock, much older now and sitting by himself (though never alone), grimaces as he thinks on the case that had helped shape the rest of his life.  Carl was only the first of many.  Sherlock had tried to do as his grand-mère had asked of him, and was punished and mocked for it.  Despite his plaintive cries he had been yet again wrongfully silenced by the adults around him.  

   No one had been willing to listen to the desperate pleas of a mere child.

   Grand-mère had been the only one to listen to him, to show him affection.  That year in France was the first and the last time in Sherlock’s life he had felt like a somewhat normal child.  Grand-mère had looked after, not observed him.  He had been allowed to explore the world, not just left to his own devices.  She had included him in her life.  She had believed in him.

   He never met anyone who was as kind or as interesting as her.  

   Not until he met John.

   “John,” Sherlock whispers aloud as the wind blows through his peppered hair.  He thinks about John again, so different yet so similar to the only other person he ever truly loved.  He remembers the crackle of the fire and the smell of the freshly printed words of the newspaper as his mind goes back to the memory that had sparked the reverie, the snowball that had started the avalanche of recollections.

 

   “I remind you of your grandmother?” John had said, clearly puzzled.

   “I can’t explain it well enough, John,” Sherlock had sighed (outright lied) as he set his violin aside.

   Then Sherlock’s eyes had met John’s and his chest had grown warm and tight.  At first he had been alarmed, then he realised that he recognised the feeling.

   Love.

   It was love.

   His grand-mère had loved him the way one was supposed to love a child.

   John loved him in a different way.  That’s why it had not been so evident at first.  John had supported him, had never doubted him, had looked after and cared for him.  John loved him unconditionally, and Sherlock had kicked himself for not naming the gift sooner.

   More than that, he had wanted to kick himself for not realising before that he wholly returned the sentiment.  His chest had swelled as he moved across the room, kneeling at John’s feet and brushing aside the newspaper barricade.  John had sputtered a little but was silent, allowing Sherlock to study his face as it softened.

   Fearlessly, Sherlock had reached out for John’s face, and John had leaned into his palm.  Then their lips had met softly, and Sherlock found the true bliss of loving, and being loved in return, once more.

   After they had pulled apart, John had smiled, picking up his paper again as he muttered, “Took you bloody long enough.”

   Sherlock had grinned and gone a bit crimson as he picked up his violin once more and softly sang, “Il y a longtemps que je t’aime…”

 

   Now Sherlock crouches, his body withered by old age, but his mind just as wild as when he was a child.  A single tear rolls down his face as he reaches out to press his palm against the cool marble.  Quietly, he sings, “Il y a longtemps que je t’aime.  Jamais, je ne t’oublier.”  He closes his eyes, pressing his lips to each word: John Hamish Watson.

   Then, with a wrinkled and gnarled hand, he touches the rest of the inscription:

         31 March 1976 - 2 June 2054

   “I love you, my dear,” he whispers to the stone, the futility of speaking to an object not lost on him.  Not being able to speak to John anymore, he makes do with what he has left.  “John, you made my life a loved one, and even if my mind goes, I’ll never forget you.”

   Then Sherlock chuckles a little, glad no one is around to witness his acquiescence to sentiment.  With a small groan, he gets up.  Every day, Sherlock visits John, and everyday, Sherlock wishes he was still as nimble as he used to be.  With a long glance back, he makes his way up the hill to the home he and John shared in their last few years together when London became too much for them.  It was a quiet home in the countryside: Just the two of them and their bees.  

Sherlock never wished for a life more perfect.    


End file.
